


View of a different landscape.

by be_a_rebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Violence, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-24
Updated: 2010-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_a_rebel/pseuds/be_a_rebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for rabidsamfan  who won a fic of mine at help_pakistan  and wanted fic on John's time in Afghanistan or a stop in Pakistan. This fic contains the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	View of a different landscape.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.
> 
> A/N: Okay people, I live in Pakistan and have lived in Peshawar, where this fic is set. All the views written here are opinions I have held myself or seen other people hold. I have seen these things happen with my own eyes and have witnessed people make certain misogynistic/political statements which are contained here. I wasn't going to leave said statements out since I wanted to give a real view of life in Peshawar rather than a pretty drawing. There are also some anti-religion statements, not very strong, but they are there. Please consider all of that before you state that this fic is unrealistic or that I'm being a racist asshole. This was not an easy fic for me to write. I'm done now. Also, I'm really not sure of the orders of a British Army medic so you may have to suspend disbelief. A lot.

None of it is what he expects.

War is war. He knew it would be hell and it is hell and he slogs through it because that's what has to be done.

John Watson is a patriot but he’s also a pragmatist. If a war has to be fought he will do the fighting because someone has to.

And that someone might as well be him.

But none of it is what he expects. The enemy inspires hatred and pity in turns and in the end, the middle, the start, they’re all exhausted and none of it, none of it is worth it.

*

They’re in an open truck and a man is leaning on his shoulder. John doesn’t know his name and right now, he doesn’t care.

Peshawar definitely isn’t what he expected.

It resembles the images on BBC. Women in burqas or what are commonly called chadors and men in beards.

It’s all very dusty. There’s not much greenery and there are Pepsi ads everywhere, with the female model’s face is torn off.

He’d find this amusing if he wasn’t so completely exhausted.

But then there’s the sudden shock. Girls in school uniforms in buses and private cars. Clad in the shalwar kameez he’s used to, red sashes stark against the hospital white shirts.

And then there are girls in tunics and coats and ridiculously enough, berets.

The city doesn’t make sense. He’s too tired to figure it out.

They end up in a hospital in the center of town. He’s not sure why he’s here, he doesn’t recall his orders or his own name at this point. Two men are arguing loudly in Pashto.

It sounds a lot like German. He remembers a family across the street, father harsh and mother harsher. The entire city sounds like clones of those two.

The city isn’t what he expected. He expected hostility and rage instead he gets curiosity and smiles. Their guide/driver offers him tea and he drinks it in a haze, more sugar then tea.

He fights the urge to spit it out. Some caffeine is better than none.

The hospital is dank and dirty and there are children and mothers crying alike.

There’s a little girl lying on a stretcher with her arm hooked up to an IV and she has the hugest eyes he’s ever seen. He smiles at her.

She doesn’t smile back.

*

Their driver lets them stop at a superstore on the way back. It’s not strictly allowed but this isn’t a strict war or a strict country. He sewed a large cut on a twelve year old boy’s shoulder without anesthesia and the child didn’t make a single sound. He doesn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

His unknown companions are buying coke and chips and other things that they’ll get confiscated from them in a matter of minutes.

He ends up near a batch of raggedy Ann dolls, they’re eyes blank and unremarkable. The girl behind the counter looks bored, like she couldn’t care less about the fact that there’s a war on some miles away.

He wonders whether these people are ridiculously strong or just indifferent. He doesn’t have an answer.

He ends up buying batteries and deodorant. The cashier’s ‘thank you’ rings in his ears all night.

*

Pathan women are kind of ridiculously pretty. His guide informs him that this is because half of them are Afghani. He claims Pathan women themselves are as pale as flour and round and loud and terrifying.

John believes that last bit.

There are hundreds of little girls scurrying across the streets, banging on their windows, asking for money. John empties his pockets yet more come, disheveled hair and green eyes.

Perfect little teeth. He feels a little sick.

At one point their bus (they’ve been upgraded) stops at a traffic light and he turns to look at the group of children. They’re playing an odd game of hopscotch and their laughter isn’t sweet but loud, screeching.

He really doesn’t understand this city.

*

They’re brought kebabs, from the local police station apparently.

John knows better then to ask at this point.

They’re hot and burn his mouth and the green chillies make him choke and his guide is laughing, as are the nurses and the doctor who’s been explaining things to him.

The grease is so potent that his tongue sticks to his mouth all day, even after he’s had green tea, which is apparently a cure for all ills in these parts.

He likes the green tea. It has no caffeine in it but it smells like something special, not like those stupid herbal teas back home but something different, richer.

Someone buys a crate of peaches from Swat on the way back. Everyone’s chins are wet and sticky and they can’t stop themselves, six and seven and eight.

It’s a good day. Those are few and far between.

*

He ends up working next to a female doctor.

The refugee camps are not his favourite place in the world. Harry’s told him that he has a bleeding heart but he doesn’t really. He likes being a doctor but he loves being a soldier more.

War is clear lines, black and white. He does what he has to do and he’s never bored, never still.

Working in the camps gives him time to think.

Women cry and plead with him and he doesn’t know what they’re saying and after so many days of this, he finds it hard to care.

The female doctor, Saima, she doesn’t try to soothe them, like he expected her to.

She takes the kids out of their arms and looks them over, every inch of skin, like she doesn’t trust the mothers, doesn’t believe them.

She is meticulous and thorough and so very angry that John respects her.

He’s possibly a tiny bit scared of her.

She’s slightly darker then the typical Pathan women he’s seen before. Her eyes are a plain brown and her hands are rough, callused and she’s very tall, towering over him.

She barely glances at him, as if she is alone with all these people, as if he doesn’t exist.

He finds it hard to keep his eyes off her.

*

Someone brings them tikkas and she eats quickly, chutney smeared on the corner of her mouth. He feels a little repulsed but the damn things are good, heart attack waiting to happen. The fact of the matter is that the Taliban will kill him before the grease does.

His priorities have changed of late.

He tries to talk to her but she barely looks at him, as if she can’t find it in herself to care.

He wonders if she can’t speak English, if that’s why she won’t talk to him.

That’s blown to bits a few days later.

A couple of BBC correspondents turn up and she’s suddenly snapping at them, quick as fire, railing about the stupidity of their questions about the war, about the Taliban and Pakistani involvement.

These people were here long before the war.

It’s obvious that the war doesn’t mean much to her, just one more thing that’s happened.

It’s hard to argue with that perspective.

*

He doesn’t try to talk with her after that, but he helps her, handing her bandages from his own first aid kit. He scrounges up what he can from his unit and he doesn’t care, not about orders or any of it.

She doesn’t smile but he knows she’s grateful. He buys antiseptic and scissors, this time ignoring the dolls.

He doesn’t think in bullets so much anymore. He isn’t sure whether he’s grateful or.

Or something else.

Her chador falls from her head a lot and her hair is a light brown, thin and lank.

Hardly attractive. Her back is plump and her feet are swollen, so many hours left standing.

He likes her anyway.

She never speaks to him. He never says goodbye.

* * *

Eid-ul-Adha or ‘Bari Eid’ as everyone seems to call it is kind of……disturbing.

There is blood everywhere. There are pieces of goats and cows and sheep every which where.

He’s used to wounded human flesh and dead bodies. It’s amazing what you can get used to.

But this. He doesn’t think he could get used to this.

The people here treat it as normal, every day business. There are smiles on the faces of old men and young, hidden female faces.

He stays in a camp for the night and smoke rises in the air, ashen sky.

It’s November and the nights are cold. The cold is nothing compared to the chill back home but children cry around him, sniffle into thick blankets.

The aid is ridiculous in a way. It’s as if the world is throwing money and blankets at the problem and hoping it goes away.

John is very sure it won’t.

* * *

The kids play football in the sun. They’re vicious and loud and happy and most of them play barefoot.

Most of them aren’t very good.

He wants to join in. But he doubts he’d be wanted, that they’d smile at him and speed around him as they speed around each other.

He’s an outsider. And he’s never forgotten it.

* * *

He leaves Peshawar on December 1st. It’s 6 am and he’s barely awake and the wind is biting and dry.

He watches the city disappear with half open eyes.

A little girl is kneeling by a fruit stand. She stands up to watch them leave.

If this were a movie, she’d wave.

But she never does.


End file.
